


A Quartet of Masquerades

by GreyWardenAspasia



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Non-Warden Cousland - Freeform, briefly featuring Fergus Cousland
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26351293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyWardenAspasia/pseuds/GreyWardenAspasia
Summary: King Alistair's advisors urge him to host a series of balls to boost his popularity. He reluctantly agrees, with the requirement that everyone in attendance is required to wear masks - including himself.Fergus Cousland and his sister Winifred attend the masquerades, with Fergus looking to reintroduce Winifred to society after her long absence during the Blight.
Relationships: Alistair/Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	A Quartet of Masquerades

The ballroom was a splendous swirl of color - blue, green, red, yellow - even enchanting, expensive-looking purples were present in the skirts that bloomed on the dance floor. Sequins and jewels caught in the candlelights, casting rainbows across smiling faces. The sun was sinking behind the big, stained glass windows and Alistair had to pause as he entered the ballroom.

He hadn’t expected such a spectacular scene and he certainly hadn’t anticipated the Fereldan nobles to embrace the idea of a masquerade so readily. Yet here they were… and nearly all in attendance were wearing masks, as he had requested in the royal invitation. 

Maybe his advisors had been correct.

They had been the ones to suggest the series of balls, although their suggestion had been a thin veil for their  _ true  _ intentions: they wanted to use the masquerades as a sort of matchmaking device. According to the advisors, Alistair’s popularity as king had been gently but steadily waning for a few years now; the decline had been expedited by his unconditional support of the Inquisition, too.

The thought irritated him.  _ Why was trying to save the world controversial? _

After months of badgering, he had finally agreed to the dances, with a few stipulations. 

One: marriage was not guaranteed. Alistair would be open to the idea of courting someone he met at the masquerade, but he did not agree  _ unconditionally  _ to marry someone for the sake of cementing his claim to the throne. 

Two: masks were a necessity. A few of the older advisors had scoffed at that demand because they still associated masks with Orlais and couldn’t shake their old prejudices from their bones. Alistair craved anonymity; he wanted to make sure that he was being treated authentically. Too often he had been seen first as the King of Ferelden - and before that, he had been Maric’s bastard. 

Tonight - and for the three nights after - he would be only another man in a mask and the prospect excited him. It was a freedom that he had never known, not truly. 

“Excuse me, m’lord,” a serving girl murmured as she moved past him, carrying a plate of what looked - and smelled - to be toasted bread. Alistair smiled as he moved out of her way, touching the edge of his plain navy mask. ‘My Lord.’ Not ‘Your Majesty.’

He decided on a vacant table at the edge of the ballroom and took a seat, accepting wine from an offered tray. The servant with the wine didn’t treat him any differently than any of the other lords and ladies in attendance, either. Alistair felt himself relax as he leaned back in his chair. For a half hour, he was content to spectate, occasionally tugging at the stiff collar of his heavily embroidered doublet.

A few of the masked nobles managed to make their identities plainly obvious. They wore dresses or tunics embroidered with the heraldry of their families or golden pins with their crests. Once, he accidentally locked eyes with a fair-haired noblewoman with such a pin and she whispered to her companions and tried to discreetly nod at him.

It was at that moment Alistair realized how suspicious he must look. He was a nobleman sitting alone at a table, in one of the most embellished doublets in the room, watching everyone but not participating nor speaking to anyone. Maybe his identity would have been less obvious if he had worn a sign that said, ‘I’m the King!’

When the fair-haired woman didn’t drop her gaze, he decided he needed to vacate his table for a while. Alistair stood from the dining chair and headed toward one of the long buffet tables, trying to not walk too slowly or too quickly. He could still feel the noblewoman’s eyes on him, but she did not approach. Alistair picked up a plate from the end of one of the tables and then slowly meandered down the line, filling his plate with food as he went. Perhaps eating would make him look less suspicious.

Honestly, it all looked delicious. 

There were a few stews set out in extraordinarily large serving containers, but he hadn't thought to grab a soup bowl, so he had to pass alongside a sweet-smelling pheasant stew and a thick meaty potato stew without indulging. Alistair was dismayed to discover that his favorite cheese puffs were almost gone; he took the last two before heading for the star of the feast, a carefully carved roast pig with crispy golden skin. A servant offered him a cut and it was carefully laid on his overflowing plate. 

At last he headed back to the table, giving a nonchalant glance toward the fair-haired woman.  _ Great, still looking.  _ Her gaze was trained on him as he moved toward his former spot and Alistair had to stop himself from audibly groaning as she began to make a beeline toward him.

Apparently, the Maker was in a good mood. 

A group of ladies mercifully intercepted the blonde woman, smiling and chatting at her for  _ just  _ long enough for Alistair to abandon his plate of food on a table and duck out into the hallway, nearly running into an alarmed-looking guard.

“Pardon, m’lord,” the guard said. His impressive-looking mustache bounced as he talked. “Did you need something?”

“Um, yes-” Alistair said, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I was just seeking a…”

“Restroom?” the guard suggested, equally impressive eyebrows raised. 

“Yes! Yes. Is there one nearby?” Alistair asked, relieved. He glanced over his shoulder. The ladies had moved onto the dance floor, but he did not see the blonde woman with them. Was she still in pursuit?

The guard nodded, then pointed a gauntleted hand down the hallway. “Yes, m’lord. Down the hall and to the right. It will be the first door on your left-”

“Thank you!” Alistair called over his shoulder as he moved. 

He did not go to the restroom. 

He walked right past it, giving a polite answering smile to a noble couple who had nodded at him in greeting as he strode. If his memory served correctly - and Maker, he hoped it did - there was a closet at the end of the hall that would be large enough for him to hide in while the fair-haired huntress sought him out. She might think to wait outside of a restroom, but hopefully she wouldn’t expect him to be hiding amongst brooms and buckets. 

Alistair wrenched open the door and expected to see wooden shelves filled with cleaning supplies. Maybe it would contain polishing cloths or mops.

He certainly did not expect the closet to contain a woman.

He found himself suddenly face-to-face with wide, guilty-looking brown eyes framed by a gold mask. For several moments both Alistair and the closet-woman were silent and they only stared at each other.

A musical sounding voice snapped Alistair’s attention away from the closet’s occupant.

“Have you seen a man in a blue mask? He’s tall with auburn hair.”

The fair-haired woman wasn’t in the same hallway, not yet - she wouldn’t be able to see him standing outside of the closet, but as soon as she rounded the corner she would spot him. Panicked, he glanced back at the woman in the closet, a pleading look in his eyes.

She didn’t say anything, but gave the tiniest jerk of her head.

Exhaling, Alistair quickly stepped into the closet, pulling the door shut quietly behind him. For the next minute, neither spoke; they only carefully listened as dainty footsteps first drew closer to the door and then faded as they continued down the hallway. He felt like he had forgotten how to breathe.

Once he could no longer hear footsteps outside of the closet, Alistair exhaled in relief, his palm resting on the handle of the door. “I, um, didn’t think this closet would be occupied.”

The woman shrugged. “I wondered if you knew it was a closet or if you were just very drunk,” she said, but her tone was kind. Her voice was deeper than the fair-haired woman’s and he didn’t think it sounded familiar.

Alistair quickly glanced around the little storage room. It wasn’t very dark in the closet, even with the door closed; light leaked in from both the bottom and the top of the door. A three-wick pillar candle that he recognized as belonging on one of the tables in the ballroom was now sitting on one of the shelves, too, casting flickering light around the room and across the profile of the closet’s other occupant.

“Not drunk at all,” he said finally with a small smile, trying to survey her without looking like a lecher. Did he know her? He thought he hadn’t ever spoken to her, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t  _ seen _ her.

“So you’re hiding?” she guessed. She didn’t look afraid or uncomfortable by his presence, even though they were no further than an arm’s length apart “Who are you hiding from?”

He hesitated. 

The polite thing to do would be to lie, but somehow the strange otherworldliness of the closet inspired honesty. “Everyone,” he admitted. It was a relief to say. She laughed, white teeth flashing in the dim light. Dark curls bounced around the edge of her laurel-trimmed mask. Alistair smiled. “Who are  _ you  _ hiding from?”

“ _ Nearly  _ everyone.”

“Then why come in the first place?” he questioned. His hand slowly lifted from the doorknob and instead he casually crossed his arms over his chest. She was nearly as tall as he was; he wondered if she was wearing slippers or those high stilt-like shoes that were suddenly in fashion again. “You could be home right now, doing... um, whatever it is you do at home on a normal evening.”

“True. However…” She sighed wistfully. “I couldn’t resist the temptation.”

“The temptation? Of... the king?” His stomach tightened uncomfortably as his eyebrows rose. Was she like the fair-haired woman who had pursued him down the hallway? Maybe he had run from one huntress just to fall into another one’s trap.

“No!” she said a little too loudly, then lowered her voice. When she spoke, her tone was theatrical and silly, dark eyebrows occasionally waggling up above the line of her mask. “The temptation of visiting a palace filled with broom closets for me to hide in. It’s my true passion in life.”

He laughed, surprised. “What’s the truth?”

“I’m here for my family,” she answered simply, smiling. Dimples appeared in her cheeks. “What about you?”

Alistair paused. “Duty,” he said honestly. Every time he told her the truth, it felt like a weight was lifted in his chest. Even if she was just a stranger in a closet - at least  _ someone  _ knew how he felt. 

For a moment she considered him and her eyes flickered to the doorknob. “Do you plan on staying here?” she asked him.

“Um-” he said, blinking in surprise. His cheeks flushed with embarrassment that he had assumed he was welcome in her little hideaway. 

“Not that you have to leave!” she assured him with an apologetic smile. She then gestured to the floor. “I was just going to suggest that we sit while we hide. Women are expected to wear the most uncomfortable shoes possible to events like these, so I’d like to save my feet if at all possible...”

“Oh,” he said, relieved, and nodded. She sat down quickly, adjusting her skirts to make sure they were covering her legs and feet. Alistair sneakily stole a look at her while he sat cross-legged across from her.

Her gold mask hid a large portion of her face; only her mouth and chin and a tiny, kohl-rimmed area around her eyes was visible. The dark curls around her face - which he had thought before were pinned back - were actually cut short and worn freely so that they bobbed around her jaw. If her hair was black or dark brown, he couldn’t tell in the light. 

“Who are you?” he blurted out. It was improper to ask her such a thing so frankly, especially at a masquerade, but Alistair couldn’t stop himself. She was  _ odd  _ and they were alone, away from all the societal expectations and  _ rules  _ of interaction. The isolation made him bold. 

“That defeats the purpose of the masks!” she protested.

He smiled, touching his own mask to make sure it was still in place. “You obviously take them  _ very  _ seriously.”

She huffed, but in a good-natured way that signified she wasn’t  _ really  _ upset. “We’re  _ supposed  _ to be wearing them for a reason,” she reminded him, picking at the edge of her emerald dress. There was a floaty material over the velvet of her skirt; he supposed the effect would be quite nice when dancing. 

“What’s the reason, then?” 

Her expression faltered for a moment, a little bit of her confidence evaporating at the sudden demand for an answer. “To… promote good will between Ferelden and Orlais?”

“Very diplomatic answer! Are you the king in disguise?” he questioned with a teasing smile.

“What do _ you _ think the reason is, then?” Her arms crossed over her chest in a challenge. The neckline of her dress was low; he could see her pale collarbones. A simple golden necklace hung from her neck. 

“Perhaps…” he began, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Stubble brushed against his calloused hand. “The king owes money to a mask maker. The mask maker will become rich with the increase in business and the debt will be repaid.”

“No,” she said confidently, waving a hand at him as if she was trying to bat his words away. He saw her fingernails were painted metallic gold, too, to match the embroidery on her skirts. “You’re wrong.”

His waited.

“The king is afraid of noses.”

A laugh escaped from him, loud and surprised. “Right,” he agreed. “That’s it, then! I give up. We can stop our speculation right now. You’ve  _ clearly _ got this whole thing figured out.”

She smiled and returned to picking at the edge of her dress. “Do you know him?” she questioned suddenly, glancing up at him. “The king, I mean.”

He hesitated. He didn’t want to  _ lie  _ to her; this was now the Closet of Honesty, but if he revealed his identity he might break whatever casualness had fallen over them. He didn’t want to be transformed back into the king again - not yet. “We’re, um, acquainted,” he said finally. “Have  _ you  _ met him?”

He knew the answer already: no. He would have remembered her, surely, this short-haired woman who hid in closets and said such outlandish things to people she had only just met.

“Never,” she said, confirming his assumption. “I always wanted to, though.”

“Really?  _ Why? _ ”

Her mouth pulled into a shy smile, surprisingly tinged with sadness. “He did something for me - for my family - a long time ago. I wanted to thank him in person,” she said, then folded her hands neatly in her lap and cleared her throat. Her tone changed completely between sentences as she tucked her sorrow away in a well-practiced manner. “I’ve heard  _ all _ kinds of stories about him, though.”

The way her eyebrows waggled at the edge of her mask made his cheeks flush. “What - what kind of stories?” he asked. “... good stories?”

“Of course. Are there bad stories about him? I’ve never heard any,” she said, then paused. “Seems a little suspicious, now that I think about it.”

“Maybe he’s just a good person,” he suggested. Alistair’s shoulders were scrunched up near his ears. He felt very strange speaking about himself like this, as if he was two separate people: the king and Alistair, the closet-hider. 

“Or-” she said, fanning her hands out dramatically. “Maybe he kills people who say bad things about him!”

He laughed, shoulders loosening a little. “Your imagination is very… colorful.”

She shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” she admitted. “And a lot of cheese puffs.”

His mouth dropped open. “Cheese puffs?”

A nod. Her curls bounced. “Yes, they’re these little flaky pastry balls filled with cheese-”

“I know what they are! I thought they were all gone-”

She produced a napkin from  _ somewhere _ , which she had bundled into a makeshift pouch. Unwrapping the piece of cloth, he could see at least a dozen cheese puffs rolling around inside. “Do you want some?” she questioned with a guilty-looking grin.

“You’re the one hoarding all of them,” he said accusingly, but dipped his hand into the bag anyway. “There were only two left by the time I got my food.”

“Yes, t’was I - the cheese puff thief,” she confessed, throwing a hand across her heart dramatically. “That’s the real reason why I came here.”

“To steal the cheese puffs?” he asked, biting into the offered snack. They weren’t warm anymore, so the cheese wasn’t gooey, but the pastry was still flaky, buttery, and fantastic.

“And-” she produced a second napkin. “The chocolate cake bites, too.”

He laughed and watched her pull a dark, cocoa powder covered morsel from within the pouch. “You’re nefarious, aren’t you?”

She nodded, enthusiastically accepting the new descriptor. Her hair swung by her jaw with the affirmative movement. For a moment the pair only sat in silence, occasionally popping either a cake bite or cheese puff into their mouth. Finally, she looked around thoughtfully, wiping a smudge of chocolate from the corner of her mouth.

“What do you think the king is doing right now? Dancing?”

_ Sitting in a closet with you, actually, stuffing his face with cheese puffs.  _ “No, I’ve heard he doesn’t like dancing,” he settled with finally, speaking slowly and carefully. “He’d probably avoid it at all costs.”

“Really?” she asked, surprised.

“Really,” he said, then tugged on his doublet nervously. “Um, do you like dancing?”

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, I do - and I’m an excellent dancer.”

“A dancer  _ and  _ a great cheese puff thief?” he questioned, then wiggled his eyebrows. “A woman after the king’s heart.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” she assured him with a smile. She reached for another cake bite - which must have been the fourth or fifth one she had eaten since opening the bag. He wondered if her stomach capacity rivaled his own. “Does the king like cheese?”

“Mmm,  _ yes.  _ He loves it. It’s a well-known fact.”

“Not very well-known if I had no idea,” she pointed out.

Alistair shrugged, then cleared his throat. “Anyway, um,” he began, eager to get off of the subject of the king - or, rather, himself. “What’s… a well-known fact about  _ you _ ?”

Her smile faltered. “That would… give my identity away,” she said quietly. Something was in the air, something dark and sad that he didn’t understand.

“Maybe not, then,” he offered. She seemed grateful for the way out, her chocolatey brown eyes rising to meet his.

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “Why don’t you tell me a well-known fact about yourself, instead?”

“Or-” he began, wiping his cheese puff fingers on his pants. Alistair stood, straightening his doublet. “We could sneak our way into the ballroom and steal some wine.”

“What a marvelous idea,” she said with an excited little clap of her hands. The golden nail polish flashed in the candlelight. She stood quickly, then swayed a little unsteadily. 

“Are you alright?” he asked. Alistair initially reached for her, concerned, but then thought better of it and dropped his hands to his side.

“It’s the shoes, not the wine,” she assured him, holding up her skirts to show him the ridiculously ornate, high heeled shoes she was wearing. Little laurels wrapped around the back of the shoes like wings. 

“Those are monstrous,” he said, eyebrows raising as she lowered her skirts again. “Why don’t you take them off?”

“And, what, walk barefoot around the palace?” she asked with a laugh, rolling her eyes. When he didn’t laugh, her smile slowly faded, dimples dissolving back into her cheeks. She glanced down at her skirts as if she could see through them to the footwear beneath. “I can’t do that! That’s… it must be against a rule.”

“A rule? Whose rule?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her eyes flitting to his. “Society’s. The king’s.”

“I doubt the king has time to draw up rules about what kind of footwear must be worn,” Alistair assured her with a laugh. “Who would know? Your skirts would cover your feet. I wouldn’t tell.”

She pursed her lips and then chewed on the bottom one. “It’s not very proper,” she said hesitantly, but her voice was a little less adamant this time. “And where would I put them? I can’t walk around with my shoes in my hand.”

“Leave them here on a shelf. Come back and get them before you leave,” he said, pointing to an empty spot on one of the shelves.

There was the tiniest sliver of a pause. 

“Okay,” she said, glancing from his face back down to her feet.

“That didn’t take very much convincing.”

“Well,  _ you  _ walk around in these and then see how much convincing you need to take them off,” she grumbled, but her smile betrayed her true feelings. She pulled her skirt up to her knees, then balanced herself as she tried to wrench one of the shoes off.

For a moment she wobbled and his eyebrows lifted in alarm as she began to tip forward. Alistair panicked - again reluctant to touch her - not knowing if steadying her by her arm would be a welcome contact. Before he had too much time to contemplate, she reached out and gripped his upper arm, steadying herself. 

She was so close that he could smell the oil she must have bathed in; the scent of vanilla and honey caressed his nose. 

“Er, sorry,” she muttered. Once she had regained her balance, she pulled away and he thought she saw a faint blush on her cheeks. Then, after a few seconds: “Victory!” One of the shoes was thrusted triumphantly in the air. 

After she had placed the shoes on the shelf and hidden them behind a stack of cleaning rags, he opened the door to the closet and offered her his arm. “Will you accompany me to the… food tables… my lady?” he asked in a pompous sort of voice. It had the intended effect; she laughed, then wrapped her arm around his.

“I would be delighted,” she said, briefly stopping to blow out the three-wick candle. “I don’t want to burn down the palace.”

“No, of course not. There are three more masquerades after this - you want to burn it down on the  _ last  _ night. After you’ve had your fill of closets and cheese puffs,” Alistair said with a smile. She laughed. “ _ Are _ you, um, planning on attending the other nights...?”

She nodded. “Mmm-hmm. I’m - um, nevermind,” she said, flushing suddenly. 

“No, you’re - what?”

“I’m... excited because I have a different dress for each night,” she admitted. 

She didn’t seem to be finished speaking, even though her voice was reluctant, so Alistair patiently waited for her next sentence as they walked. 

“I grew up wearing them and I hated them because they were something I  _ had  _ to wear. But then, for a few years, I couldn’t wear them,” she said, rather quickly, as if she was trying to get past this personal admittance as fast as possible. “I’m… oddly glad to have them back in my life. They remind me of my childhood - and of my family. It’s silly - to feel comforted by a piece of clothing.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly. They stopped walking. Alistair hesitated, before reaching into the inside of his doublet with his free hand. He pulled out a small silver pendant and held it out to her. “This was my mother’s. I… carry it with me embarrassingly often.”

She withdrew her arm from his, carefully inspecting the Flame of Andraste. She did not lift her eyes as she spoke, but kept gazing at the tiny engraving on the pendant. “Just ‘often.’”

“Hmm?”

Her eyes were soft as she handed the pendant back to him and stepped away. “Not ‘embarrassingly often.’ Just ‘often.’ It’s not embarrassing to-”

“Feel comforted by a piece of clothing?” he suggested pointedly, tucking the small piece of jewelry back into the hidden pocket of his doublet.

“ _ Touché _ .”

He smiled, offering her his arm again. She took it; they resumed their walk to the ballroom, their pace leisurely. “Don’t let some of the older nobles hear that Orlesian,” he joked. “They might want to challenge you to a duel for Ferelden’s honor.”

“They might be disappointed with the result.”

Alistair raised his eyebrows as they entered the ballroom. “What do you-”

“There you are! I was beginning to think you’d been abducted…”

They turned; a man with the same dark curls as his closet friend approached them, relief painted across his face. The clothing the man wore was  _ also _ emerald and trimmed in gold - perhaps he was a brother or a cousin. His manner toward her didn’t seem romantic, so Alistair didn’t take him as her husband. 

At least, he hoped not.

“Well-met, my lord,” the green-clothed man said, bending at the waist in a brief bow. He touched his mask - also gold - as he straightened. His gaze was on Alistair’s elbow, where the woman had her arm threaded through. “I’m-”

“ _ An anonymous noble _ ,” the woman reminded him swiftly, shooting him a look.

“Ah… yes, I suppose,” the curly-haired man said with a small smile.

Alistair bowed back at the man. “What a coincidence - I’m also an anonymous noble.”

The woman smiled. “A small world,” she said, looking between Alistair and the other man. She cleared her throat pointedly. “Did you need something?”

“Yes, I was going to have the carriage pulled around. I have that early meeting tomorrow, so we should be getting back to the inn. If - you’re finished here for tonight, that is.”

She glanced at Alistair and then her eyes widened in alarm. She looked down at her skirts - no, at her hidden feet… her hidden,  _ bare  _ feet. Both Alistair and the woman began speaking almost simultaneously.

“I, ah, forgot my-”

Alistair cleared his throat, trying to not trip over his words. “Yes, your, uh- earring, was it?”

“Bracelet!” she corrected loudly.

“Yes!” Alistair agreed. “We - we should go get that before you leave. You left that in the- um-”

“- when I was washing my hands -”

“Yes. I would not want you to leave without that.”

The green-clothed man stared at them. Alistair tried not to look guilty, although he did feel strangely uncomfortable under the man’s gaze. Finally, the stranger spoke, slowly. “I don’t remember you wearing a bracelet,” he said carefully. “But you should retrieve it before someone mistakes it as theirs.”

“Oh - you don’t pay attention to things like that, anyway,” she assured him with a casual, waving hand. “I’ll just be a minute. Please, wait for me outside. I’ll meet you in front of the carriage.”

“Very well,” the man agreed reluctantly. “Try not to dawdle.”

“Never do, brother!” she said as he turned away. 

_ Brother.  _ Alistair felt like singing. 

As soon as the man was out of earshot, the woman whirled around to face Alistair. “My brother saw through our story. I’m sure he’ll interrogate me in the carriage,” she said with a sigh, gesturing for him to begin making his way back to the closet. “You’re not very good at lying, are you?”

“Me?” Alistair asked, incredulous as they wove their way through throngs of nobles and out into the nearly vacant hallway. “What about  _ you _ ?”

She smiled, shaking her head. Her curls swayed.

“Is... your brother kind? Or have I gotten you into trouble?” Alistair asked, feeling suddenly anxious. “You’ll still be able to come back tomorrow, won’t you?”

She nodded. “My brother is one of the nicest people I’ve ever known,” she assured him. “He won’t stop me from attending.”

“I have a feeling he couldn’t even if he tried.”

“That’s true enough.” 

The walk back to the closet was impossibly short. Alistair had a thousand questions for her and yet he could think of none, pressured as he was. He was only able to think about how many steps, approximately, were left from the closet to the cobblestone carriage lane outside the palace. 

_ Say something!  _ He tried to wrack his brain for something he wanted to know about her, yet he could only think of silly questions or things he had already asked her. Alistair absently watched her slide her feet back into her shoes, her hand clutching one of the cabinet shelves for support.

“I-” he began as she finished pulling on her other heel.

“You’ll-” she said at the exact same moment.

They both smiled. Alistair extended his arm for her and she took it again.

“I was going to ask if you’d be here tomorrow,” she said as they walked. “But I’m assuming you will be, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked if I would be returning. Unless... you were just being polite?”

“No, not being polite. I’m very, very rude,” he said in a tone that made her laugh. “I was asking for entirely selfish reasons... I’ll be here all four nights.”

And the four after that. And the four after  _ that.  _ Until he was either kicked off the throne or killed, whichever one happened to come first. Alistair cleared his throat. 

“Good,” she said simply. “We’ll be arriving around seven. I have a blue dress - dark, like your mask. Although you won’t have to search for me very hard.”

“I won’t?”

“No. Just look toward the cheese puffs.”

He laughed. “I will. Make sure you save me some.”

“I can’t make any promises.”

Alistair and the woman descended the stone stairs down to the paved driveway slowly. The woman waved at someone; he looked up just in time to see her brother waving back. The man climbed into a nondescript, modest-looking carriage. It looked the same as the other dozen lined up around the half-circle drive. Alistair tried not to look disappointed, as he had been hoping to get some hint for her identity from the carriage. There was not even a scrap of heraldry anywhere to be seen.

“Well, have a good night, Lady…?”

He trailed off, giving one final half-assed attempt to wriggle her name from her.

“ _ Lady _ ,” she agreed, grinning as he offered her a hand into the carriage. She took it; her hand was warm and surprisingly rather rough. The contact was all too brief. “Have a good evening, my Lord.”

“I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises,” he assured her, and with one last smile the door to their carriage was pulled close. There were no windows in the carriage, though, and so as the driver flicked the reins and the vehicle pulled away, Alistair could overhear her brother.

“Your bracelet sure looks like a pair of shoes,” he said.

“It’s called  _ fashion _ , brother,” the woman said breezily. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Alistair laughed his way back to the palace.


End file.
